


One Last Sacrifice

by Rae666



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Darach - Freeform, Gen, Sacrifices, Stiles being a badass
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-02
Updated: 2013-08-02
Packaged: 2017-12-22 03:55:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/908604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rae666/pseuds/Rae666
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With the others busy fighting the Alphas, Stiles decides to confront the Darach alone only to find that maybe that's exactly how the dark druid wanted it all along. Based on the events of 3x09 and promos for 3x10...</p>
            </blockquote>





	One Last Sacrifice

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: I've spent the last two or three days working on this little ficlet, unable to get it out of my mind since watching the latest episode and the previews for the next episode. I know there have been a lot of theories regarding Stiles and the latest episodes, and I guess you could say this is my take on how it could go... 
> 
> This is my first Teen Wolf fic that doesn't feature Sterek! I can't believe it, which means I'll to focus my attention on making my next fic Sterek focused. It's been almost a year now since I wrote anything for the show, so I hope you enjoy...
> 
> Warning: Spoilers for Season 3
> 
> Disclaimer: The characters don't belong to me, I'm just playing around with them.

Lights flickered on and off in parts of the hospital, from fixtures that clung desperately to the walls or from the ceiling they had once belonged to. But mostly, it was dark. The shadows were thick and long, and the deeper into them Stiles ran, the more an odd stillness filled the air. The distant sounds of the others, still battling against the Alphas, became echoes; the silence in the stretch of hallway Stiles ran through, broken only by the pounding of his feet against the floor and the occasional buzz and hiss from a broken vending machine or fluorescent light.

 

It was over. She had won. Ms Blake, the Darach – or whatever or whoever the hell she was – had won.

 

But Stiles pressed on.

 

He didn’t care if Ms Blake had won. He didn’t care how dangerous she was, or how he was probably the least well-equipped of the group to deal with her. All that mattered was that she still had his dad. That was all he needed to push him on, chasing after her whilst the others did their best the break away from the Alphas to rejoin him when they were ready. If they made it that was...

 

Forcing the thought from his mind, Stiles focused on what was ahead and pushed forward, but the brief distraction had him stumbling. His foot caught against something and he skidded on a wet patch on the floor, falling forward to land on all fours. His knees hit the ground with a harsh and painful thwack; jeans immediately soaking up the wetness there, one hand landing inside the puddle of ickiness, and the other on something that wasn’t floor. Something cold and hard, layered with a sticky mass of softness that had him reeling backward across the floor and into the thing that had first caused him to trip.

 

Dead eyes stared at him, hollow and emotionless, but Stiles could feel the accusation despite the lack of words or expression... could feel his stomach twisting at the sight of the slashed throat and the blood now covering the floor... and his hand, and his clothes. And he could feel the lack of movement from the leg against his back, the one that had caused him to stumble and take notice of the dead bodies lining the corridor. Splayed out in front of him. A dozen or so, all accusing. All telling him he had been too late. He was still too late.

 

He swallowed thickly, lifting his gaze to take in more of the bodies. Some unknown to him, but others too familiar. Mr Harris, Tara... Heather. His breath hitched at the sight of them, familiar faces that had once been so alive, but were now simply dead. Dead, and pale and bloody. Fear frozen into their features even though their eyes were empty.

 

Then they were gone.

 

Just like that. There one moment, gone the next. Barely a breath later... Bodies and blood, gone. Darkness left to take the place of the dead.

 

Stiles’ heart hammered in his chest, so painfully he feared a panic attack would take him in its grasp, and this time, there would be no one to pull him from it. It would just be him, alone in that hallway, unable to help his father again. Too weak to do anything other than be late.

 

“No,” he croaked out, scrubbing his hands over his face and taking several deep breaths to calm himself. It did little to help, but it gave him enough strength to push up from the ground and continue on.

 

It took him a second to steady himself enough to get his speed back up, hands forming fists at his sides and tears dampening his eyes, threatening to spill over onto his cheeks. But he couldn’t break. Not when his dad was counting on him. He couldn’t break... He wouldn’t break.

 

He skidded to a halt as the corridor split off into three further directions, head dizzy and light, breath heavy and chest aching. Arms going up, he span on the spot, searching each direction, but there was no sign of his dad, and no sign of Ms Blake.

 

“Dad!” he shouted, the word tearing from his lungs and up through his throat, desperate. It was a long shot, but he had to try. He doubted there would be a reply, doubted that Ms Blake would have his dad so close... but if she did. If there was any chance of it, then he had to try.

 

Silence.

 

“Dad?” he called again, weaker this time, fractured and broken, and he brought his hands down to rest on the back of his neck, fingers interlinked, nails digging into his skin.

 

Silence again. And then...

 

“Stiles!” came the reply, interrupting the fear and anxiety running through Stiles, and sparking hope instead. Straight ahead... so very close.

 

“Hold on, Dad! I’m coming!”

 

Pace quickening, he urged himself forward, muscles tired and body aching, but he didn’t care. He wouldn’t be late this time. He refused to be. He refused to lose his dad.

 

He nearly overshot the room, nearly ran straight past the open doorway and the silhouetted figured hunched over in the chair. But he caught himself at the last moment, catching sight of the moonlight streaming in through the broken blinds that barely even covered the windows anymore, and the figure in the chair, facing away from the doorway and looking out into the night instead. Caution had him moving slowly, entering the room with tentative footsteps, as if he were walking on glass and was afraid the slightest of crunches would awaken the sleeping dragon. His gaze darted about the room, taking in the empty beds and turned over hospital equipment, searching for any sign of Ms Blake but constantly returning to the figure in the chair, waiting for movement.

 

“Dad?” he questioned, the whisper barely more than a breath, uncertain. “Dad...”

 

He was almost upon the figure, about to reach out a hand to spin the chair around, when the response came and he froze at the sound of his father’s voice.

 

“Stiles...” It was definitely his father’s voice, but it wasn’t from the figure in the chair. It had come from the doorway behind.

 

He couldn’t move at first. He couldn’t force himself to turn around, a pit opening up in his stomach because something was wrong. Something was definitely wrong.

 

“Stiles,” the voice repeated, “I’m right here.”

 

Swallowing thickly, Stiles straightened his back, readying himself, because he knew. It may have sounded like his dad, but it wasn’t. He knew his dad too well, and he knew that wasn’t him. “Where is he? Where’s my dad?”

 

There was a light chuckle in reply, his father’s chuckle, but it morphed into the sound of cold malice at the same time the silhouette in the chair lost form and collapsed into a pile of black cloth. Stiles spun away from it to face Ms Blake, her hand upon the door handle and a smile upon her face. The pretty face... the one she had used to trick everyone. To manipulate them, and fool them into believing she was just another innocent victim. She turned away from him to close the door behind her, shutting the pair of them in the room. So gentle, so careful. So deadly. If she wasn’t so damn evil and didn’t currently have his dad held captive somewhere, Stiles might have been turned on. But as it was, he was pissed, and yeah... maybe a little scared too.

 

He took a breath, his jaw tightening as he looked her over. “If anything happens to my dad, I swear I’ll-”

 

“You’ll what?” she interrupted, snapping her head to face him once again, a sneer twisting up her lips and her brow burrowed, insulted that he thought he was allowed to threaten her. She pushed forward; took one single, imposing and threatening step forward, toward him. “You’ll do _what_ , exactly, _Stiles_?”

 

“I don’t know yet,” Stiles blurted out, standing his ground. “But I swear, if you’ve hurt him in anyway... I will find a way to kill you and I will make it as slow and painful as possible.”

 

Her head tilted to the side, sneer gone but confusion still tugging at her brows. “Do you really think you’re capable of killing me? I thought you were smarter than that, Stiles.”

 

Nostrils flaring in response to her mocking, Stiles let out a snort of heated air, the tension running through his jaw and neck so intense it was beginning to hurt. Again, he could feel the dampness at his eyes, but he refused to shed any tears in front of her. “Look,” he tried, the words rushing together as he forced them out, “you, you got what you wanted. Just let my dad go. _Please_.”

 

The last word he pushed through gritted teeth, and it got the most reaction. A spark of a smile that twitched at Ms Blake’s lips and played across those cold and calculating eyes of hers.

 

“I can’t do that,” she answered, controlled. “Because it’s not over yet. There’s still one more sacrifice...”

 

“One more sa-There’s three dead cops outside that beg to differ!” Stiles answered, voice hoarse around the edges, but determination strong, his hand motioning in the direction of said cops. “You got your sacrifices, now let my dad go.”

 

She looked him over, slowly, in such a way that made Stiles feel uncomfortable. “You still don’t get it...” She leaned forward, “None of that matters. None of it means a thing, not without the final sacrifice.”

 

“ _What_ final sacrifice?” Each word was punctuated by barely contained anger, rage that was bubbling up inside of Stiles. He was done playing her game, whatever game that was.

 

“The one that ties it all together.”

 

“What does that even mean?” And he was tired... so tired of her riddles and her bullshit.

 

“The last sacrifice, the one that binds all the others in place,” she answered, as if it were obvious and Stiles should have known all along. But no matter how times she said, Stiles wasn’t any clearer on the matter. But she seemed to notice this, and that smile of hers grew. When she spoke again, her words were slow and deliberate, lingering on her red-painted lips, and when she started forward, her movements matched her tone, a lion approaching its prey, a cat stalking the night. “A philosopher and a healer all in one, who uses knowledge to attain power, who mends those who are broken. A warrior, who fights on even when battle worn, even when bloodied and bruised, even when they know they can’t win... And a guardian, who is a protector to all – who puts the lives of others before his own-.”

 

And then it clicked, before she could even finish. Everything slipped into place, and Stiles understood now. That was why she had taken his dad... that was why she had led Stiles there.

 

“Scott...” he breathed out, interrupting her, his gaze falling to the floor. “You want me to bring you my best friend, in exchange for my dad...”                                                                               

 

She looked amused, and for the first time, Stiles noticed the knife gripped tightly in her right hand. “No, Stiles,” she said, patient and slow, “I want you to die.”

 

If anything could have caused Stiles’ brain to stall, it was that. Confusion set in, playing upon his face; his eyes narrowing, brow burrowing, and mouth opening and closing, the words refusing to form. He took a step back, knocking over the chair behind him in the process, the sharp clatter breaking into the stillness in the air and causing him to jump, his senses returning just long enough for him to get one broken word out. “Wh-what?”

 

“You forgot the most important sacrifice of all... the pure one, untainted and filled with childish innocence,” she answered, continuing forward, moving ever closer to him and looking him over, an almost hungry look to her gaze.

 

With every step forward she took, he took another step back, attempting to keep the space between them as he waited for his brain to start up again. It took him a moment to catch on, but as his back hit the wall and he could retreat no further, it truly clicked into place. He could see Heather’s face in his mind’s eyes. He could see her lying there on the mortuary slab, as dead as all the others. “Virgins,” he answered, as if it had been a question.

 

“That’s right, Stiles,” she replied, mimicking the tone of voice she had so often used in class and coming to stop right in front of him. She raised her free hand and placed it against his cheek, deadly smile lighting up her face, her eyes wandering over every inch of him they could see... then he felt her fingers curls up so that her nails began to bite into the tender flesh beneath them.

 

“I... I’m not-” he tried to say, but nothing beyond that would come out.

 

She scoffed and pulled back just enough to regard him. “A virgin? Please, I know a virgin when I see one. Face it, Stiles, the only way for you save your friends from the Alphas is for you to die. Even if they win tonight, there’s always tomorrow, and the next day, and the next day. It will never be over.” She straightened her back, holding her head up high, her shoulders loose but restrained, and her smile was almost sweet, if the look in her eyes wasn’t so fricking homicidal. “It’s an honour, Stiles... to die for the gods.”

 

“Yeah, well, how about you take your honour and shove it up you-” But the rest went unsaid, the breath leaving Stiles and pain taking its place. He had been so focused on refusing to break eye contact that he had forgotten about the blade in her hand.

 

At first it was just a sharp sting, but as she jerked the knife harshly before pulling it out of his abdomen, that initial sting began to grow. It spread through him, jolts of agonising pain, and he didn’t need to put his hands to the wound to know that he was bleeding. But he did so anyway, pulling them away again to see the red that now painted them, and it all felt so surreal... so distant.

 

He pushed away from her, and she made no attempt to stop him. Why would she? With a wound like that, he wouldn’t get far. And he didn’t. He got as far as the first hospital bed before he stumbled and was forced to use the railing of the bed to steady himself.

 

“Relax,” she lulled from behind him, her heels click-clacking against the ground like the second hand on a clock... slow and dull, but present as she approached, “it’ll hurt less if you don’t fight it.”

 

She put a hand upon his shoulder and with the strength rapidly draining from his body, it was all too easy for her to push him down to his knees. She must have discarded the knife, because it was wire Stiles that felt against his neck now, digging into it, cutting into his Adam’s apple as she pulled at it.

 

“I’m not...” Stiles tried to say again, but his voice was weak and the restriction of the wire around his throat made speaking even more difficult, “I’m not any of those things. I’m not a warrior... I’m not a guardian...”

 

She leaned down, her lips brushing against his ear, her breath caressing his skin, and he could hear the smile in her voice, just as he could feel the tightness of the wire around his neck. “You really have no idea,” she whispered, “just what you are... or what you could have been.”

 

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, but before the wire could tighten further, he decided to try one last time. If this was the end, he was going to make it count. “My dad... Just... just tell me where my dad is.”

 

The twisting of the wire paused, as if she was considering it, considering granting his final wish. One last thing before she murdered him. “You can’t save him,” she answered flatly.

 

“But Scott can...”

 

Silence as she considered him further.

 

“Let me... let me...” he pleaded, attempting to pull his phone from his pocket with a sluggish hand, unable to look down to see what he was doing with the wire right there, holding his head in position. He managed to pull the phone free, but it threatened to slip from his grip, the blood on his hands making it hard for him to keep hold of the one last lifeline he had.

 

The wire disappeared from around his neck and he heard her take a step back. After all, he was practically already dead. Vision fuzzy, he cleared his throat, but despite the lack of wire, he could still feel the pressure of it around his neck... a phantom feeling of what was waiting for him.

 

“There’s an abandoned mill just outside of town,” Ms Blake offered up, little to no remorse hidden in the depths of her words. “Your friends will find him there when it’s over.”

 

He nodded, but the action caused his head to spin more, and he could barely make out Scott’s name on his phone as he scrolled down the list. Taking a breath, he pushed the button and let it ring... and ring... waiting for voicemail to kick in, because a text message wasn’t personal enough. It was just words, no feeling, no voice... He didn’t expect Scott to answer, not with how things had been going with the Alphas. He didn’t expect to get to hear his best friend’s voice one more time... But at least Scott would get to hear his.

 

“Stiles... Stiles?”

 

Stiles’ heart skipped inside his chest, and the words caught in his throat for a moment. Not voicemail. Just Scott... Scott’s voice, and for a moment, Stiles forgot what he had called to say.

 

“Where are you? Stiles... Where-”

 

“Just – listen to me, Scott,” Stiles interrupted, voice cracking, throat parched and dry. He used his spare hand to push up from the floor, gripping at the bed beside him to keep himself upright. “My dad, he’s in the abandoned mill outside of town. You have to get to him... you have to save him.”

 

“Stiles....” It sounded so desperate, as if Scott already knew what was going through Stiles’ mind, and if anyone did... it would have been Scott. He knew Stiles better than anyone.

 

“Promise me you’ll save him, Scott,” Stiles demanded before Scott could say anything else. “Promise me.”

 

Stiles allowed only a brief silence before continuing on, not giving Scott the time to interrupt him or object, because there wasn’t time. There wasn’t time to argue. Just time for Scott to listen.

 

“And... and tell him I’m sorry. Tell him I’m sorry, and that I love him.”

 

“Stiles... I’m coming for you... Stiles! Just hold on! We’re coming...”

 

But it was too late.

 

 Stiles didn’t bother hanging up. He just let the phone fall from his grasp and toward the floor. One less thing to hold onto. “Not this time, buddy...” he whispered to himself, the light and tinny echo of Scott still calling for him barely audible against the sound of his heartbeat pounding violently in his ears. “I don’t think you’ll make it.”

 

He straightened himself as best he could, taking a deep breath and forcing himself to focus. Breathe in through the nose, and out through the nose.

 

In...

 

Out...

 

In...

 

Out...

 

His took his hand away from the bed, forcing himself to stand on his own two feet. No help. Just him. And he turned to face Ms Blake once more, taking her in under the streaks of moonlight that lit up her features and cut across them, like claw marks across her currently unmarred skin, the skin that hid the truth of what was beneath. She looked at him and took a step back, confusion written on her face, along with just a hint of fear, her composure and posture wavering.

 

“What are you doing?” she asked, her gaze moving up and down his body, but focusing on his stomach and the wound she had caused. Her eyes flickered to the bed for a moment, and Stiles’ followed them with his own.

 

The knife, lying there, inches away from him and coated in his blood.

 

“You can’t kill me... remember?” But she didn’t sound so sure. “I can’t die.”

 

Stiles tightened his jaw, squaring his shoulders. “Everybody dies... Even dark druids who think they’re immortal because they know a few neat tricks.”

 

She lunged forward, toward the knife. But Stiles was closer. He grabbed it before she had even reached the bed, and by the time she was on him, he had it ready. With the force she was coming forward, the blade slipped easily into her flesh and she gasped at the pain there.

 

“You just have to believe,” Stiles pushed out through gritted teeth, twisting the knife deeper into her gut. Her hands gripped at his shoulders, trying to push him away or make him release his hold on the knife... Stiles wasn’t sure which, but with the fear written on her face, he knew he had done something. He knew this was one wound that wasn’t going to heal.

 

“How?” she breathed out, confusion clear, her body going loose but her nails still digging into his shoulders as she dragged him down to the ground with her.

 

“Force of will,” Stiles answered, repeating words he had heard what seemed like an eternity ago at a time when druids were supposed to be the good guys, and Stiles had only had to worry about maybe one or two psychopaths running around town instead of a dozen.

 

He dug the knife deeper and saw the blood spill from her lips, only leaving go when the light began to fade from her eyes... and her magic with it. The false image of Ms Blake disappearing, replaced by the rough skin and raggedy clothes of the Darach.

 

“That’s for my dad...” And for Scott and the others. For the victims he didn’t know, and for the ones he did. Heather, and Tara, and even Mr Harris.

 

He pulled free of the heavy body and pushed himself backwards until he collided with the foot of the second bed. He was fading, fast. The darkness was creeping in around the edges of his vision, and there was a buzzing in his ears that grew louder and louder with each laboured breath.

 

“I’m sorry,” he breathed out to the empty room, unable to stop the hacking cough that followed the apology. Hands holding onto his stomach, he looked down at himself and his blood drenched clothes. His blood, her blood, mingled together to stain him.

 

He closed his eyes and breathed deep, but even such a simple movement as air entering his lungs was agony. He felt as if the knife was still there, as if Ms Blake was still twisting it inside of him. And damn, why did dying have to be so painful?

 

“Stiles!” The sound of Scott’s voice interrupted his thoughts, a distant cry that broke through the pounding of blood in Stiles’ ears.

 

He raised his head to take in the doorway and the door that sealed him off from his friends. They could race straight past, and they would never know. They would never...

 

“Stiles...” Scott’s voice again, and Stiles found himself blinking because he must have lost time somewhere. The door to the room now open and several figures hanging back there, watching on... Of course, the blood. They could smell the blood.

 

And Scott was right there, in front of him, dropping to the ground with such a frantic look on his face; his gaze and hands moving to Stiles’ stomach.

 

“No... no...” Scott begged, his hands pressing against the wound, and Stiles could see what he was trying to do. Even in the dim light and with his vision still wavering, he could see the black veins rise up along Scott’s arms as he took away the pain.

 

But that was all he could do. He could only take the pain. Not the wound, not the injury. He knew that. The super werewolf healing abilities were his and they were non-transferable. It wasn’t that easy. Still, it didn’t stop him from trying.

 

“Scott,” Stiles tried to say, attempting to push his friend’s hands away from him. “Scott... it’s’okay...”

 

But Scott wasn’t listening, and Stiles could see the flicker of red and amber in his best friend’s eyes. He could feel the frustration as if it were his own, and he could feel the vibration of Scott’s growl turned roar as he desperately tried and tried and tried to make it work. But it wasn’t working.

 

“S’okay, Scott... S’okay.”

 

“No it’s not,” Scott growled out in reply, but his grip had lessened and the black veins were disappearing from his arms. “You can’t die.”

 

“Find my dad, Scott... you have to fi-”

 

“I’m not leaving you to die!”

 

“And how you gonna stop it, ey, buddy?” Stiles questioned, and by God did he feel tired. So tired... “I’m not like you, Scott. I’m not...” He swallowed the thickening lump in his throat, watching Scott’s eyes drift downward, hands now hovering above the wound, no longer pressing down on it. “I’m not special... I can’t do anything.”

 

“Stiles...” Scott tried to interrupt, his eyes widening slightly, disbelief written there. But whatever he had to say, Stiles didn’t want to hear it. He had to get this out before the pain ebbed its way back in and made it impossible for him to continue.

 

“You have to stop them... You have to keep going, and you have to take care of my dad.”

 

“Stiles, your wound...”

 

“Yeah, I know... I know. It’s nasty and bloody and...”

 

“And it’s healing.”

 

“Yeah, it’s...” Stiles started to agree, before stopping short, head snapping down to consider the hole in his shirt and the skin beneath it that was slowly attempting to knit together right before his eyes. “It’s healing... I’m... it’s...” Eyes wide, he met Scott’s gaze. “What did you do?”

 

But Scott shook his head. “I didn’t... I don’t think it was me.”

 

“Then what? It’s just healing by itself?”

 

“I think it’s you...”

 

“Or maybe it’s something else,” Stiles muttered beneath his breath, turning his head slowly to the left in order to regard what had once been Ms Blake. Her blood... her blood had gotten mixed in with his and this had to be some kind of weird ass side effect. He made to move forward, made to push himself up... but the wound still stung, and when he looked down at it, he could see it was far from fully healed. Her blood, or whatever the hell it was that was fixing him, was only doing a half-assed job. “Okay... you’re going to have to help me up here, buddy.”

 

Immediately, Scott slipped his arm under Stiles’ and around his waist, pulling Stiles up from the ground. They toppled a bit at first, falling back against the bed until they managed to right themselves, and Stiles couldn’t stop the hiss of pain or the way he clutched at Scott’s shoulder when his wound was jarred. Scott didn’t complain. He didn’t say anything. He just took it, and kept a hold of Stiles, as if he was afraid letting go would make this tiny spark of hope disappear.

 

Stiles swallowed and glanced toward the body of Ms Blake once more before returning his attention to Scott and the others. “So,” he drawled, “seeing as how I’m no longer dying and all, can we please get out of here now, and go find my dad?”

 

Figuring everything else out could wait. Everything as a whole could wait... Alphas, Darachs, sacrifices, and wounds that healed themselves... They could all wait. He just wanted to, no... he _needed_ to see his dad. Really, _really_ badly... And after everything that had happened that night, he didn’t think anyone had the right to argue with that.

 

“Just, one last thing,” Stiles added, hobbling along with the help of Scott, “when we see him.... can we leave out the part about me almost dying?”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
